Hagan sidestepped it by jumping on Jo’s bandwagon, insisting that she had been extremely lucky in her upbringing. By the time she’d acknowledged how blessed she was, and defended her decision to avoid her parents until she’d thought it through, she hadn’t felt up to an amorous encounter. He didn’t press her.
Perhaps they both wanted the first time to be perfect and knew last night it would have been as lackluster as the rainwater pooling on the patio.
She rolled over, flattened her face into the pillow. Thoughts of Hagan hadn’t woken her. Remembering that the original windshield had to be installed on the Lotus for the press photo had. Peyton was a stickler about authenticity. She didn’t blame him, particularly since the splintered reproduction glass was being held together with duct tape. She would have to pop over to the track and install the original before the media showed. Hagan could enjoy his beauty sleep for another couple of hours. With luck, she’d be back before he knew she’d left.
Decision made, she shuffled to the bathroom for a brief shower. A clean red turtleneck, team coveralls in white-and-gold-quilted Nomex, a dab of makeup to minimize the circles under her eyes, and she was ready to meet the press.
She tiptoed down the hallway and paused outside the door of the spare bedroom. Cocked her head. Could she hear light snoring coming from the darkened room? Even money said Hagan slept on his stomach like an infant, blankets tangled between his legs.
There was one way to find out.
Wrapping her palm around the doorknob, she turned it away from the jam. The tongue clicked as it retracted. Not locked. Her hand grew slick on the knob as she hesitated, not breathing. Should I?
She bit at her lip, wagged her head from side to side. Not now. The car had to be made ready. They could be alone after her required appearance at the track. Judging from last night, they might be able to sort things out. Hagan was making the effort to open up. She should be willing to do the same.
In the kitchen, she propped a note against the toaster for Ian, telling him she’d see him at the track. Hagan’s note she slipped under his bedroom door where he’d be sure to trip on it.
The photographer from The Indianapolis Star had agreed to be at the tent by eight A.M. to take publicity shots. Peyton, in turn, had extracted promises from Ian and Rebecca that they would be suited up, looking perky and confident for the camera. He was thrilled to get coverage for his team alongside the Formula One write-ups. He couldn’t wait to see his name on the same page as Frank Williams and Ross Braun. The Sunday paper would have an entire twenty-four-page section devoted to race coverage.
Outside, there was just enough light to see the numbers on her watch: six thirty-eight. Plenty of time. The morning air was cool, clouds were breaking up. It promised to be a brighter day than yesterday in lots of ways.
She trotted briskly down Hulman Avenue and crossed the wooden foot bridge at Twenty-second Street, slowed to watch geese pull at the reeds in the gutter. A fat one had definitely gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. He squawked whenever another bird found a tasty blade. Normally, their squabbles would have been drowned out by the distant roar of race cars circling the track. Not this early. The cars were under wraps, waiting for their chance to shine. She entered the track through Gate 10. One of the senior security guards was just coming on duty. Holding the edge of a foam cup with his front teeth as he zipped up his jacket, he nodded, checked his Timex in mock horror at the early hour and wished her a good day.
“I’m counting on it, Henry.”
She followed Shaw Road as it cut through the infield without seeing another person. Drinking in the silence, the inactivity, she felt in control. Early mornings at the newspaper had been her favorite time. Only a few early risers milled about and the phones were blessedly quiet—both were conducive to creativity.
Today she didn’t have to be creative, just attach the Plexiglas windshield so the Lotus would be ready for its publicity stills. Tighten a few nuts, say cheese for the cameraman and she could do as she pleased for the remainder of the day. She would have whistled, if she could pucker up and carry a tune.
In the half light, the paddock tents looked dingy. They were limp, coated with heavy dew. The sides had been lowered and lashed together in anticipation of last night’s storm, ropes knotted around the pitons hammered into the tarmac. All should have been safe and secure.
But it wasn’t. Partway along—near where the Lotus sat—a loose section of canvas luffed in the breeze like a sail at dusk.
She circled the tent to investigate. Tom, or more likely Johnny, must have forgotten to tie off the ropes and they’d worked loose in the wind. An irritating oversight. Mentioning it could wait until after the race. There was no point in relacing; the sides would be removed shortly anyway. She rolled the flap back and tied it out of the way.
Sufficient light drifted in through the opening to guide her to the tool chest. She rooted in the drawer for a rachet and a flashlight. As she closed the drawer a gust of wind kicked up a candy bar wrapper, riffled the sides of the tent on its way in.
It was then that the odor assaulted her nostrils.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as if alive with static electricity. She froze. Suspended breathing. Listened.
Nothing. No movement. No noise.
She scanned the periphery of the tent, eyes skimming the shadows beyond each low-slung chassis, between the tool chests. Nothing unusual except the smell.
She twisted in the direction of the race car. Nothing remarkable at all except the smell.
And the shapeless mass filling the cockpit like dough rising in a bread pan. What the devil—
Rebecca swallowed. Forcing herself to relinquish her hold on the tool chest, she fumbled with the switch on the flashlight. The beam shook as she played it over the humped shape in the car, trying to make sense of it. Stared through the gloom until it evolved into the bent shoulders of a person.
Oh, God, no.
The flashlight slipped from her hand, smacked the tarmac and rolled, flashing circles of light around the tent. The wrench fell at her feet.
Her hand flew to her mouth as she smothered a gasp. She should have seen it coming. Two days ago, when the shot exploded out of nowhere, a premonition should have followed it like a contrail.
The shot had been a warning.
Not a prank, not an accident. It had been a prelude to this.
But no frisson had shivered up her neck. The bullet sank into the tarmac and its threat slipped from sight. She was so concerned with the image she presented to the crew that she’d accepted the party line and dismissed it as an act of petty intimidation. After venting to Jo, after Hagan arrived, she’d brushed it aside and gotten on with her work.
Her hands fell in fists to her sides. How could she have been so blasé? So obsessed in her own problems that she’d ignored the impending danger?
Breathing deeply through her open mouth, she tried to steady the pounding in her chest, to diffuse the odors of urine, sweat, fear and fried electrical wiring. Reluctant to touch the car, she squatted down, balanced on the balls of her feet, straddled the puddle oozing from under the Lotus. Too frazzled to hunt for the flashlight, she wrapped an arm across her chest and waited for her eyes to adjust enough to separate substance from shadow.
Gradually, the body came into focus.
It had been strapped into the cockpit. The left leg was stretched out, invisible beneath the housing; the right knee banged against the steering wheel. The shoulders were hunched forward, pale hands flopped palms-up in his lap. His head was bowed by the weight of the helmet, in an attitude of defeat or supplication.
There was no blood that she could see. No indication of a wound. Just the reek of burnt flesh.
She closed her eyes, conscious that the water from last night’s storm was seeping into her shoes. She should reach out, feel his neck for a pulse. Unsnap the harness pinning his body tight against the seat. Go through the motions. She should tilt the head upright, remove
the garish green and orange helmet or at least raise the smoked visor and gaze at his face in death.
She couldn’t do it. She didn’t want to see one more body up-close. This one would be personal.
It was someone else’s turn. Curling her fingers over the damp edge of the cockpit, she shivered, gripped hard and hoisted herself to standing.
Outside the tent she began jogging, cutting through the mist back to Gate 10 to find Henry. He would know what to do. He was a security guard, an impersonal official trained to take charge.
Over the rim of his coffee cup he watched her coming closer, her ragged run telegraphing the message that something was wrong. He listened to her disjointed plea, blanched as he set down the foam cup, then knocked it over reaching for his two-way radio. Taking her word for what she’d found, he connected with the security office, yelled that they should call 911, send the ambulance from the emergency center. And tell the police to hurry.
Rebecca hadn’t brought her cell phone; she begged to use his. He freed it from his pocket with shaky fingers and handed it over. She dialed the house.
No one answered.
Henry told her to stay put, wait for the others. “I’ll go keep watch.”
She ignored him. Arms locked around her ribs, she retraced her route to the tent, to the car with its body. She tried to stay in observer mode, keep her mind switched off. Tried to keep from wishing she’d opened the door to the guest bedroom and seen Hagan sleeping there. Witnessed Ian puttering in the kitchen, amusing her with a limerick. She cursed both of them for not answering her phone call.
Henry plodded along behind her, puffing to keep up. At the tent, they halted. Neither wanted to go inside. They waited, upper arms touching in support.
The paramedics arrived within minutes. They barely listened as Rebecca told her story. They were already moving in under the canvas, barking orders with lowered voices, as much deflated by the weather as in deference to the victim.
She remained outside, staring in, tensed as they lifted the visor of the race helmet. Craned her neck to the side. There were too many technicians bustling around and she was too far away to catch a glimpse of the driver’s face.
But she saw the oxygen mask quickly fastened into place. Heard them call for an IV.
She and Henry exchanged stunned glances—the victim was alive.
Henry sighed, braced her arm as she sank down onto the retaining wall. She still didn’t know who was strapped into the car, but his synapses were firing, he was capable of breath. She took a deep one of her own, held out her hand for Henry’s cell phone. Willing her fingers steady enough to punch the tiny buttons, she tried the house again. “Come on, Hagan, put down your coffee, come in from the patio, answer the damn phone. Tell me Ian’s on his way over.”
No one picked up.
Patting the guard’s arm, she rose, and handed back his phone. “I can’t stand it. I have to know.” Henry nodded. He understood, but he wasn’t moving any closer. He could live with the uncertainty a few minutes longer.
Rebecca entered the tent. After terse negotiations with an unshaven technician, she was permitted inside the circle hovering around the victim. Before she could bend down, someone on the opposite side hollered, asked if she could remove the windshield so they could get the vic free of the chassis.
His sidekick shook his head. “That’s not the problem. Damn belt’s stuck. Going to have to cut it.”
“Stuck? I doubt it.” She’d checked the release yesterday; it worked fine. If a fire broke out, she wanted Ian out of there fast. She leaned into the cockpit to demonstrate.
A hand grabbed her arm and tugged her upright, smack against a substantial bulk of a Speedway cop. The black uniform was stretched taut across his stomach. A frown cut across his face. She bent back far enough to read his name badge—Chief Leonard Patten. He gripped her other arm. “Hold on, Miss. Can’t have you messing with things.”
She yanked free. Explained that she was only going to show them how to release the harness. “Nope.” The chief’s stomach swelled. “You tell me how it works. You don’t touch a thing.”
Drawn forward by the figure in the car, she acquiesced, moved along the car weaving between two technicians.
They’d removed the helmet and fastened on a neck brace to stabilize the head. The face was tilted away from her, obscured by the oxygen mask. It was in three-quarter profile: eyes closed, mouth sagging open, a spittle of drool rolled down his chin. She had no trouble recognizing him.
A tear started to swell in one eye. She shook her head in relief, sank to her knees.
It wasn’t Hagan. Not that she’d really expected it to be. There was no reason for him to be at the track; no possible explanation why he would crawl into a race car. But in the dark hours sometimes she was irrational, fearing that the fates were sadistic enough to strike when they could inflict the most pain. With her once-secure past breaking up on the rocks, she wanted to look ahead. She didn’t want to lose Hagan without knowing if they had a future. He was a friend.
The victim wasn’t Ian—the most logical person to be in the cockpit. If he’d woken early he might have come over to commune with the deserted track, or just to sit in his car and meditate on the upcoming race. He’d been unnerved Friday by the gunshot, complained about not being able to practice on Saturday because he didn’t want downtime to dull his edge. Thankfully, he was sulking elsewhere.
Nor was the inert body Wayne Evans. The snide crew chief might have remembered that the windshield needed to be changed. He could have come to the track early to do it. It would take only a few minutes to show up the lax mechanic and win points with his boss for efficiency. That would have appealed to Evans. In this case, though, his boss wouldn’t have appreciated it.
The victim strapped in the car was Peyton Madison.
Rebecca placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, doubting he was aware of her or anything else.
What was he doing unconscious in the race car? Last seen, he’d been chatting up guests at St. Elmo. If she’d overheard correctly, he and Elise Carlson had planned to keep the party alive. If that had fizzled, why wouldn’t he have retired to his suite at the Canterbury Hotel? What would have induced him to come to the track before dawn and crawl into the Lotus? Unlike most team owners, he had no interest in driving. Or did he? Was it possible he secretly fantasized about taking it for a spin around the track in the dark, no headlights. So he hopped in and then what—passed out?
No. No way. No how.
Peyton had not sat in the car willingly. His arms were pinned against his ribs by the shoulder straps, hands flattened against his thighs under the lap belt. He was held securely in place, no chance of escape.
And he hadn’t just passed out. Someone had helped him lose consciousness. Underlying the stench of body fluids, lingered the smell of singed hair. An assailant had harnessed him into the cockpit and—The chief tapped her shoulder, pointed in the direction of the car. “Thought you were going to show me how?”
Gesturing, she indicated which way to turn the release and gave him room. The medical personnel grumbled: They’d already tried it. No stinking luck. They were vindicated when it wouldn’t turn for the chief either. She wasn’t surprised. The other whiff she’d recognized in the cockpit was glue.
She squeezed past Patten and crossed to the far side of the car, stubbing her toe, tripping on a battery charger en route. On the ledge of the double-decker tool chest was a tube of epoxy. It had been pinched in the middle. Cap off, a drop seeped from the tip. Had the assailant brought it with him? If not, and it was the team’s tube, how had he known where to find it? And why drag out the battery charger? Had he been planning to start the car?
When she looked up, Chief Patten was watching her. She pointed at the tube without touching it. Said it could explain why the buckle wouldn’t unfasten. “Will you let me unbolt the harness from the frame rather than have them cut it?”
He wheezed in disgust. “We’ll see. First you expl
ain what else’s bothering you. Your eyes are roving all over the ground like that Indian that went west with Lewis and Clark.”
“Sacagawea. She looked up, following the flight of birds.”
With the toe of her boot, she indicated the battery charger. It was usually stashed next to the tool chest. Someone had attached jumper cables, plopped it in the middle of the open space inches from the puddle that had settled under the car.
The chief shrugged. “Probably one of your crew left it out.”
“I stowed it myself yesterday before leaving.” She squatted down and pointed. “If you look closely, you can see scorch marks on the asphalt.”
Patten remained erect. “So what.”
“So, it’s possible that your perp was hiding in the shadows on this side of the car. He heard Peyton approach, waited for him to step into the puddle then zapped it with the jumper cables. The puddle water would have conducted the current under the car and into him.”
The chief grabbed at the nearest technician. “That dinky charger be enough to knock a guy unconscious?
The tech bent to look then nodded. “On boost, yeah, enough voltage to shock him. Fifty volts of juice. Would have stunned him long enough to wrestle his weight into the car. For sure.”
Patten slapped his foot at the edge of the puddle. Rebecca mouthed Jaup as the muddy water splattered his trousers. His frown deepened. “The perp’s so sure this guy’s coming that he’s got the battery charger ready and waiting? Got glue in hand to hogtie him so he can’t hop out and run away. Why? Who in his right mind would go to all that trouble? Simpler to just shoot him. Make my life a whole lot easier. I was looking forward to a simple corpse.” He pushed closer to Rebecca. “That was what you said, right? A body.
Why the hell didn’t you check his pulse first? You look brighter than that, Moore.”
Brighter was questionable. She was definitively experienced enough, but she was too weary to explain about the recent spate of dead bodies in her life and her fear of becoming one of them.
Driven to Murder Page 10